


Comfort

by lordhellebore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Disabled Character, Character Death, Dark, Disability, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mercy Killing, Physical Disability, Second War with Voldemort, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-18
Updated: 2009-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the war, comfort is found in unlikely places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> This story consists of 21 100-word-drabbles.

It's pure luck that Harry sees Malfoy fall on the stairs; even more luck that he makes it to him before he hits the ground.

“You're not supposed to get up alone!” Not after weeks of torture, not after having been brought to Grimmauld Place only days ago.

“Fuck off, Potter, I don't need your help!”

But Malfoy's body betrays his words, searching close contact, shaking, clinging. Even when they sit down on the couch in the study, he doesn't let go. Hot tears make their way into Harry's jumper until finally, Malfoy falls into an exhausted sleep.

.-.-.-.

Once he is sure that Malfoy is sleeping, Harry wants to get up. They still can't stand each other, and once the other boy wakes up, this will be more than awkward.

When he moves, Malfoy whimpers, holding on even tighter, and for whatever reason, Harry finds that he doesn't have the heart to leave. He tries two more times, but the result is the same.

In the end, he resigns himself to staying and closes his eyes. Minutes tick by slowly, Malfoy's thin body is warm against his own, and at least for a while, they can both forget.

.-.-.-.

Malfoy jerks awake with a strangled scream, eyes wide and frightened. But when Harry tries to pull him close again without thinking, he's pushed away. Malfoy glares, fists clenched tightly in his lap.

“I don't need your help!”

“I just --”

“Shut up, Potter! I said I don't need you! Any of you!”

“Right. Like you didn't need the Order to save your life.”

Harry gets up and heads for the door, suddenly seething with anger. This was a stupid mistake, and he won't repeat it. He should have known better. 

He doesn't look back.

.-.-.-.

Nobody cares. Harry needed a week to realise it, and now he's incredulous.

An Order member who's a Healer stopped by twice, Mrs. Weasley will bring a tray to Malfoy's room three times a day, but that's all. So what if his family tried to turn from Voldemort, what if he was tortured and his parents murdered. Nobody talks to him, nobody even tries to help. It isn't their problem.

Harry feels sick and ashamed, far more angered by this than by Malfoy's hostility. They're hypocrites, the lot of them, including himself.

So much for being the “light side”.

.-.-.-.

“Malfoy?”

There's no answer, just muffled sniffling from under the covers. Harry approaches the bed, sitting down on the edge.

“Go away.”

Harry doesn't. Instead, after some hesitation, he reaches out to touch limp blond hair. He has no idea what he's doing, and he hopes he's not making everything worse.

“Go away! Go away, go away, go away...”

Malfoy's voice is hoarse from crying, chanting the words over and over like a protective spell. But he doesn't move, and after a while, his protests die down to tired murmurs, then silence.

Malfoy is sleeping. Harry smiles.

.-.-.-.

It's the same the next evening, and the ones after that. Malfoy tells Harry to leave, but he never resists, just falls silent and sleeps after a while.

It's a strange kind of truce – Harry sitting with Malfoy silently, stroking his hair, Malfoy enduring it, or soaking up comfort, Harry can't tell. A week goes by and Malfoy stops objecting completely. Is that a good or a bad sign?

They could go on like this forever, it seems, but it's not enough. After two weeks, Harry decides taking a risk.

“You know, he didn't kill only _your_ parents.”

.-.-.-.

It was the wrong thing to say – Malfoy shifts away from his touch immediately.

Still berating himself, Harry almost misses the sounds from under the covers. It's whispers so faint that he has to lean forward, and even then he can't make it all out.

There's “idiot”, and “arsehole”, and “...not the same!” Sobs and then “...have more family.....uncle and aunt!”

“They're _not my family!_ They hate me!” Harry is on his feet, heading for the door. “They locked me into a bloody cupboard for years! Stop feeling so awfully sorry for yourself!”

.-.-.-.

Three days later – and he didn't visit him once – Harry finds Malfoy slumped on the floor in the corridor.

“What happened?”

“Loo,” Malfoy murmurs, not looking up. “Still can't walk properly.”

Harry doesn't know what to say; this is absurd. Does it happen every time, and how come he didn't notice? Someone must have!

Malfoy lets Harry help him up and to his room in uncomfortable silence. He sits down on his bed, and now what? Harry makes to leave when his hand is grasped from behind. Malfoy's fingers are cold around his.

“Please.”

.-.-.-.

It’s not hard to slip into familiar patterns, not hard to pretend that nothing happened. Malfoy’s hair is soft and soothing under his fingers, and Harry wonders who of them missed this more.

He’s been locked up here for months, with Mrs. Weasley and George, who are like strangers. No one is the same since so many died. He lost them all: Hermione, Ron, Ginny.

Malfoy is here, he is safe, he won’t die on Harry. They’re both lonely, but maybe they can be lonely together. It’s more than he had for a long time, and for now, it’s enough.

.-.-.-.

“It’s a neural problem; they can fix it at St. Mungo’s, but it’s not safe for Draco there now.”

Mrs. Weasley sounds absent; she doesn’t look at Harry. Her attention is focussed on George, huddled in the armchair they brought to the kitchen.

“Come, dear, just a few sips.”

Like always, George turns away from the tea she offers, but finally relents and lets her make him drink. He hasn’t spoken since his family died.

“If you knew, why didn’t anyone transfigure him crutches, or something?” 

It’s useless – they’re in a world of their own. Harry leaves. He’s dispensable here.

.-.-.-.

“Your family,” Malfoy probes softly. “You said they hated you. Why?”

“They hate magic, my uncle and aunt. Dudley just tagged along with them, I think.”

It’s strange, speaking of things Harry hardly mentioned even to Ron and Hermione. They’re gone, though, and everything’s different. This seems surreal, an alternate dimension, consisting of a bed, a blond boy, and the dim candlelight. So Harry talks, and Malfoy listens, the new crutches leaning against the wall next to the bed.

 _This is **Malfoy**!_ a voice in Harry’s head protests a few times. He shuts it up. _This could become a friend._

.-.-.-.

“I didn’t even hate the cupboard so much. It was…safe; they never came inside. What I hated was that I could hear them from there.”

Harry can’t think about what he says any longer. It’s like he’d explode if he didn’t voice it out loud.

They’d talk, laugh, behave like a family, with him listening and wondering what he’d done wrong. Birthday parties, Christmas mornings, whenever they’d want to forget about him. If he hadn’t heard them, he might have been able to forget too, for a while.

“Sometimes, I wished…I asked myself why I didn’t die with my parents.”

.-.-.-.

Harry’s run out of words; they’re sitting in silence. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, now that he has time to think about what he said. He’s never been this open with anyone, and what did he expect? That Malfoy would take his offer and reply in kind?

He tries to stay calm, to concentrate only on the feeling of stroking soft hair.

“My mother…” Malfoy suddenly says. “She’d do this when I was small, every night until I’d fall asleep.”

Harry pulls back his hand; he’s not sure how to react.

“Don’t,” the other boy whispers after a while. “Don’t stop.”

.-.-.-.

It’s as if a floodgate had opened. For weeks, Harry wondered if Malfoy would speak to him at all – now, it seems he won’t stop talking.

Harry learns about Malfoy’s childhood and parents: How his mother would read him a story each night before bringing him to bed. How a toddler Draco would play under his father’s desk while Lucius was working at it. How Narcissa learnt cooking at the age of 37 to be able to send Draco self-made care packages to Hogwarts.

Listening to memory after memory of happiness and love, Harry can’t help but feel terribly jealous.

.-.-.-.

“They’re dead,” Malfoy finally ends. “They’re dead, and it’s my fault. Because I couldn’t --”

“Nonsense!” Harry wants to be calmer, but he can’t. “It was Voldemort! You could as well say that I’m to blame for my parents’ death.”

Malfoy sits up, then, and when he turns to face him, Harry wishes he hadn’t. He feels as if he was looking at a ghost, as if whatever they saved of Malfoy was just enough to make him move and speak, but no more.

“It’s not the same. It was me. I said the curse. I killed my parents.”

.-.-.-.

It can’t be Malfoy’s fault – Voldemort must have controlled him. He couldn’t kill Dumbledore, how much less could he kill his parents?

Harry wants to say that, or anything else, whatever it takes to make Malfoy look human again. Only it won’t be enough. 

Slowly, he leans forward, their eyes still locked on each other. Malfoy is still first, but then responds, so violently that it’s more biting than kissing. He’s clawing at Harry’s shoulders desperately; then the kiss breaks, and Malfoy is screaming, screaming, screaming.

All that Harry can do is hold him until he falls silent and sleeps.

.-.-.-.

Harry is woken by a crashing noise. Opening his eyes, he sees Mrs. Weasley, staring at him incredulously, a tray with spilt food on the floor at her feet.

For some seconds, he has no idea what’s wrong, but then he realises he’s not in his room, and now he can feel a body beside him. Malfoy starts shifting away, but Harry tightens his hold, making the other boy tense first, then go limp again.

“Harry! You can’t be serious!” 

“I am,” he says softly, “and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

She turns and leaves without a word.

.-.-.-.

When Mrs. Weasley is gone, Malfoy sits up, looking at him. He says nothing, just frowns slightly, like there was some puzzle to figure out. Then he kisses Harry. It’s nothing like yesterday - a short, close-mouthed peck of warm lips against his, soft and chaste. Something in Harry’s stomach flutters.

Malfoy’s head is back on Harry’s shoulder, and slowly, with a weird, pleasant satisfaction, Harry wraps his arms around him. For the first time in almost a year, since the Order decided he was too important a tool to risk losing and locked him in here, he feels content.

.-.-.-.

“He controlled me with the Imperius Curse. I tried to resist, but I was too weak. It’s why they wanted to turn from him in the first place, for me – I was too weak, I couldn’t murder.”

Malfoy’s whispers are sad, tired, full of hate for himself.

“He made me Crucio them until they lost their minds.” Now his voice is shaking. “When I managed to break the curse, it was… too late. They were just… shells… drooling… moaning…”

“And that’s when…?”

“I… I _had_ to. For them.”

Harry shivers. Malfoy was able to kill, in the end. Kill his parents. Kill out of love.

.-.-.-.

Harry tries mentioning Malfoy’s problems at the next Order meeting – Malfoy needs help, more than he thought, and he’s not sure he can handle this. 

He meets with helpless disinterest.

“We’re all struggling, Harry,” Remus finally says, raking a shaking hand through entirely grey hair. The death of Tonks and their child made him an old man over night.

Harry looks around into tired faces, worn with sorrow and the pressure of a seemingly hopeless fight. If they just soldier on, if they can’t care about each other anymore, how can there be hope? 

It’s like Voldemort had won already.

.-.-.-.

“Potter?”

“Yes?”

They tried _Harry_ and _Draco_ once during the last weeks – it sounded wrong and silly.

“Don’t die.”

Malfoy’s voice is calm, but he tenses against Harry, and without conscious thought, Harry’s hand reaches up to find Malfoy’s hair.

“I won’t,” he replies, equally calm. “I won’t. I promise.”

They both know that it’s a lie, that there can be no such promise. But they need to hear it, need to believe that they will survive, that at the end of all this, there will be something, someone, some measure of comfort. 

It’s something they won’t find anywhere else.

 

_~ The End ~_


End file.
